


Of Damsels and Knights and Other Such Things (A Crown of Daisies)

by ohmygoshwhatascream



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Daisy chains, Flirting, Flower Crowns, Fluff, Kissing, Like I mean obnoxiously so, M/M, Non-Sexual Bondage, Pre-Quest, Real Cheesey, because they're both dorks, but awkward flirting, of sorts, referencing fantasy tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:08:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22216054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygoshwhatascream/pseuds/ohmygoshwhatascream
Summary: While Frodo sleeps, Sam gets an idea.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 11
Kudos: 109





	Of Damsels and Knights and Other Such Things (A Crown of Daisies)

**Author's Note:**

> i really like flowers okay and daisy chains?? they just.... ugh i had to write some fluff for these two. The ending is rushed bc i gave up and oh god THE FLIRTING IS AWFUL im so sorry

Sam quietly begins to pack up the remains of their picnic, stacking up the empty containers that had once contained sandwiches and cakes of all sorts, with only a few small crumbs remaining as a reminder of their little feast. The lids of jars of various jams and chutneys are tightly screwed back on and, methodically, Sam begins to stack them comfortably on top of one another before placing them, with caution, in the wicker basket. Used napkins are bunged into tight balls, ready to be thrown on the kitchen fire once the chill of summer night settles in, far from now. Plates are dusted off as clean as Sam can get them (he'll wash them all up properly once they return to Bag End) and any used utensils are carefully wrapped up in clean napkins, as to keep them out of the way.

Crumbs are carefully dusted from the edges of the picnic rug – an old, slightly musty wooden mat that Sam had found in the cellar the other week – and left like little pieces of gold; a gift that the birds will appreciate later.

As a servant of sorts, Sam is used to completing his tasks swiftly and quietly, and this one is no exception. He even takes extra caution with his breaths, ensuring that not a single one of his movements is needlessly brash or loud; fearful that he might wake his dear companion who has been sleeping so peacefully.

His companion, of course, being Frodo. 

He’d fallen into a light doze about half an hour ago, his back against a nearby tree trunk and his head resting ever so slightly on Sam’s left shoulder. (before Sam had carefully shifted away) But now; Sam was certain he was fast asleep, for the soft, almost imperceptible snore – something which Frodo will deny vehemently later on – is a sure sign that sleep has completely claimed him. He also mumbles things, in his sleep. Nonsensical words. Nothing of true meaning. Sam had managed to catch a few words, some strange things in Elvish that he had not understood and then something else about dragons. No doubt his mind was still focused on Bilbo's many fantastical stories, a topic they had spoken about at length over their picnic.

Sam finds it all incredibly endearing, really. Maybe improperly so.

The afternoon is getting on and Sam realises that they will have to go back soon, but he can't quite bring himself to wake up Frodo - not just yet, anyway.

He looks so... _peaceful_ , so youthful and innocent with his eyes closed and his lips slightly parted, just enough so Sam can get a peek at a row of pearly white teeth. Maybe it’s just his Tookish features, the sharp nose and angular face, but Sam had always thought of Frodo as something ethereal, a creature from a fairytale, not a simple hobbit from the Shire. Maybe the rumours were true, and the Tooks held blood from the Fae and other creatures of folklore. With Frodo sitting there like a beautiful prince, like someone out of those Elvish tales, Sam is inclined to believe such things.

This was only truer when he was asleep. When his face softened in a way that only being amongst the most pleasant of dreams could accomplish, Sam would always be left breathless by the silent beauty of that sloping jaw; those prominent cheekbones and those dark eyebrows - no longer furrowed in their usual thoughtful expression, but instead relaxed and graceful, filled with a peace that made Sam’s heart glow to see. He was beautiful. Ethereal. Not quite of this world.

Hobbits were made of the earth. Of the grass and the soil and the mood, with their feet stuck into the ground like the roots of trees and their hearts buried deep in the Shire's rolling pastures. Frodo was made of the sky, the moon. Always changing, always shifting. Sometimes brighter, sometimes dimmer, but never any less beautiful.

At first, back when Bilbo had just taken in Frodo, Sam had been convinced that an elf had moved in next door. He remembered running to his gaffer, eyes blown wide in childish excitement, while wildly chattering about the new, otherworldly neighbour next door. 

That sense of awe, that sense of amazement and wonder, had only continued to grow the more Sam had gotten to know him, even after his gaffer had slapped him around the ears and sharply told him to keep his head out of the clouds. "Don't you be gettin' ideas above your place, Samwise." He had said. "I won't be havin' no fool for a son." His words had been harsh, but they had not deterred Sam one bit. He would simply admire this strange boy, made of stardust and clear nights, from afar. 

When he’d been just a wee fauntling, barely reaching his father’s middle, he’d spent all his time at Bag End, stumbling behind the gaffer as he went about the garden. Yet he had always been keeping an eye open for a glimpse of Frodo’s dark curls and his pale skin, like a sliver of moonlight amongst the golden afternoons. Frodo was different from other Hobbits and he had completely captivated Sam's young mind; something which he continued to do even after the gaffer's knees went stiff and Sam found himself tending to the gardens alone.

He’d always been so nice, too. Far too nice to the gardener’s son, the one who had badgered him with millions of questions and begged and begged to hear another one of Bilbo’s stories.

Yet Frodo had put up with him, answered and laughed and joked with him and treated him no differently from his fancy cousins and all his gentlehobbit acquaintances – like a friend, a true friend. Someone who (and Sam still couldn’t believe his luck) saw him as a person, not just a gardener’s curious little son. Not just a servant, not just someone who was expected to fade into the background; to be neither heard nor seen. No, Frodo had treated him as an equal. And maybe some would say that such a thing was not proper (and indeed some had) but Sam neither noticed nor cared. He and Frodo were friends and none of their cruel words would change that.

That had only been the beginning, though. When Sam had looked wistfully at the vast collections of books lining Bag End’s endless shelves, Frodo had asked him what was wrong. He remembers the way he’d flushed red, averted his eyes downward and fiddled with his hands, whispering about his secret longings to read those books, to trace their thousands of letters and words and to feel the pages beneath his fingertips. But most of all; to understand. To read and translate the mythical language of the elves, to speak in their tongue and write in their hand. He wanted to read.

But his hands, large and broad and calloused, with scars on the palms and across the knuckles and dirt under his fingernails… they were not made for such fine things. Frodo, however, had looked over him curiously, a strange expression in his eyes.

And then, not even a week later, Bilbo had asked him if he’d like to join in on Frodo’s lessons. 

The gaffer had protested, of course. "You be getting’ above you station, Samwise," he’d said one night, (not for the first time, and certainly not for the last) voice gruff but his eyes glinting with concern. "Things like that do now’t but end badly. T’is safest if you stay where y’belong." But the lessons had continued - at Bilbo's insistence - and the gaffer may have shaken his head, but (not that he’d ever admitted it out loud) Samwise had always had a special place in his heart, and it would take a blind man to not see how happy those lessons made him. He wouldn’t take that away from the lad, for it did not interfere with any other aspect of their quiet lives and, besides, what harm could it truly do? 

Sam will be forever grateful to him, and to Bilbo, (of course) for he will never forget those evenings curled up beside Frodo, with Bilbo speaking of his travels across Middle Earth, telling them stories of the dwarves and the elves and men and if anything else he could speak of. 

Now though, Sam notes with his heart heavy, there is no Bilbo up in Bag End. He has gone and he has left Frodo all by himself in that big, empty smial.

Sam watches as Frodo shifts in his sleep, brows furrowing momentarily before smoothing out once more. He mumbles something incoherent, before turning his head and hiding his face beneath a sheath of deep brown curls.

Sam can't help but watch him for a moment longer; eyes fixated on the slight rising of his chest with each slow breath. He watches, with his own breath held, the way the gentle spring breeze ruffles in his unruly hair and his fingers – long and thin and delicate – twitch ever so slightly every so often.

Then, with a flash of an idea, Sam moves with a grin.

Quietly stepping away from their shared blanket, Sam tiptoes over to the long grass, sitting between the patches of thousands of spring daisies that are dotted about the field like stars in the night sky.

With practised ease, he plucks them from low down their stems, carefully intertwining them, one after the other, until his idea truly begins to take shape. Hundreds of daisies, delicately threaded together, turn into fragile streams of white petals; ready to be put to a most unorthodox use.

First, a crown is made, one of the shorter chains tied up at the ends to make a simple wreath of sorts – one that should be the perfect size to sit atop someone’s head comfortably. He weaves in a few of the younger daisies betwixt the white, their streaks of purple like the sprouting crocuses that Sam so loves to see when the Shire is dusted in winter snow.

What he wants to do next is far more difficult; and it involves going back over to Frodo – who’s still fast asleep, mind you – and an essence of stealth and sneakiness that Sam has never really prided himself in. His family knows him for being clumsy, always tripping over chair legs and banging his hips on table edges. He’s not made for missions of secrecy, what with his large hands and broad shoulders; but he’s almost certain he can do this. 

Sitting beside Frodo’s slumped figure, he carefully lifts up one of the longest daisy chains, slipping them in the gap under Frodo’s bent knees. With practised care, he wraps them gently around those slender legs, tying the loose ends together. He gives an experimental tug to the makeshift bonds, a satisfied smile sliding across his face when they hold.

He does the same thing with Frodo’s wrists, which had been resting peacefully in his lap. When he carefully lifts Frodo’s soft hands up, the tips of them stained with black ink, he holds his breath.

Frodo’s a light sleeper, unlike Sam who has been known to sleep through lighting and thunderstorms. He could probably sleep through the end of the world, to be honest. (something which his sisters had teased him mercilessly over through the years)

Sam’s pleasantly surprised he didn’t awaken Frodo when he had to gently move his hands, lift up his wrists ever so slightly so he could wrap the daisies loosely around his porcelain skin. White against white, with flashes of lilac and green. There had been a moment where he’d stirred, head shifting in his sleep and mouth mumbling words that made no sense and Sam had feared that he had woken up, but he had merely shaken his head and snores softly, returning to sleep.

However, when it comes to the flower crown, Sam has barely even rested the circle of daisies atop of Frodo’s dark curls – such a contrast to the soft white of their petals – before his eyes begin to open, long eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks.

Sam freezes as if he is a naughty fauntling caught stealing food from the pantry. He does not move, even when Frodo’s eyes begin to regain their focus and he is met with those icy blue depths – so large and clear, like glass – staring into his very own.

Frodo’s gaze is inquisitive, those eyes reading Sam’s face (which must be bright red by now, if the heat he feels is anything to go by) like an open book.

He’s still got his hands on the flower crown, he can still feel Frodo’s silken hair against his fingers and he finds himself unable to pull away, lost in that endless gaze. 

Suddenly, as if returning to his senses, Sam recoils with a start. As if burned, he sits on his haunches, tongue already poised for the stream of apologies that will be said if this – whatever he was doing – was a step too far for Frodo. His father looms in his head. He'd been 'getting above his station' for years, by his standards; but right now he feels as if he's gone more than above. He's so far above he's amongst the stars and the moon, he can't even see the solid ground below anymore, the place where he belongs.

Instead, however, there’s a pregnant silence that seems to smother Sam like clouds before a storm as Frodo looks down in confusion at his bound wrists and ankles.

Of course, he’s not really ‘bound’, per-say; for it would only take a quick pull for Frodo to snap those fragile stems and ‘free’ himself from those floral constraints, but the intention is there and there is no doubting what those daisy chains are supposed to mimic. 

His eyes meet Sam’s once more and there’s a subtle quirk to his brow, those darkened slopes arched in confusion and his mouth held in a way that Sam cannot decipher. The silence continues and Frodo cocks his head to the side. He’s waiting for a response, Sam realises. 

“I- uh… t’is… y-you’re trapped, Mr Frodo.” Sam blurts out in a hurry, only to instantly regret his chosen words. Desperately, he wishes that the ground could open up beneath him and swallow him whole. _You’re a right old ninnyhammer_ , Samwise Gamgee. _Why’d you go and say something like that?_

With Sam miserably berating himself, it’s no surprise that he misses the blossoming smile sliding onto Frodo’s face. He misses the sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks. 

He does not, however, miss the tinkling laughter that rings out like peals of bells; a sound more beautiful than anything Sam has ever heard before. 

Frodo’s giggling, like a flustered lass who’s just been asked to dance at Lithe. He’s giggling like the gentlehobbits during their afternoon tea, speaking in hushed whispers and high-pitched shrieks about a bouquet of flowers left on their front door, or the weightless giggle of a courtship’s beginning; that feeling of lightheadedness that followed those first steps into love.

He’s giggling. His face is flushed, cheeks a dusky rose and ears tipped with rouge. His eyes are crinkled at the edges, wrinkled in a way that makes Sam’s heart swell tenfold and his white teeth glint from beneath his reddened lips.

“I’m trapped, am I? Well, whatever am I going to do?” He looks up at Sam with darkened eyes, a smile that can only be described as coy sneaking onto his lips. 

Lifting up his bound hands, taking care to not tear those fragile stems, he holds them out before him. Fingers outstretched towards the other. 

“Save me, Sam?” 

That’s all it takes before Sam leans forward and Frodo meets him halfway. Their lips are warm against one another’s, soft and gentle and sweet. A feeling that Sam wants to hold on to forever. 

They pull apart, Sam’s fingers resting on those wound daisy stems, breaking the bonds until they carefully fall away. He does the same to the ones around Frodo’s slender ankles, face flushed as he can feel blue eyes staring intently at him, watching his every move. 

The bonds are gone, broken chains lying in a blanket of snow-white petals. Sam looks up to Frodo once more, captivated by those eyes clearer than the summer sky. 

“You’re free.” He says, voice barely above a whisper. He’s surprised by how low it is, how his voice is husky in a way that is completely unfamiliar to him. He doesn’t know what else to say, what else to do, but he wants to kiss Frodo again; feel those lips against his own once more. 

Frodo laughs again, light and free and happy. It’s contagious and Sam joins in; slightly shaky, slightly nervous, yet no less cheerful, no less bright. 

“You’re like my knight in shining armour,” Frodo says, from in between giggles, before flushing red to the roots of his hair. Sam feels his heart stop in his chest, his breath catching and his face burning hot. 

“D-does tha’ mean you’re a damsel in distress?” Sam blurts out before he can stop himself. 

Frodo laughs, cheeks dusted with such a pretty pink against his pale skin. “I don’t think I’m fair enough to be a damsel.” He says, turning his head away self-consciously. 

“Nay! Don’t say that! Why, you’re the fairest hobbit that ever I saw! An’ that is the plain truth, sir, beggin’ your pardon. Ain’t a hobbit in all the land who is nearly as fine as you!”

Frodo's reaction is instantaneous. The blush turns to a full out flush, his entire face blooming a bright red and his lips caught between pearly white teeth. He giggles again, a high pitched squeal that Sam finds incredibly endearing. "And I must say, Sir Knight," he pauses momentarily to brush his lips over the point of Sam's nose. "That I'm glad someone as handsome as you has saved me." His lips move down, pushing insistently against Sam's own.

Frodo arcs himself forward, pushing his weight against Sam's sturdy body. "Mmm…" He hums, non-committedly, pulling away for a moment. His eyes rake over Sam, taking in his flushed skin and darkened eyes. "Red is such a beautiful colour on you…" He says with a smirk, deft fingers swiftly undoing the top buttons of Sam's shirt. "Let's see how far that red goes down, hmm?"

And with that, he pushes Sam backwards, his golden curls mixed amongst a sea of daisies.

**Author's Note:**

> first non-angst of 2020 babeyyyy


End file.
